The Paper Men

WILLIAM GOLDING

The Paper Men

Table of Contents

Title Page
Dedication
Introduction by Andrew Martin
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
About the Author
By The Same Author
Copyright

For
my friend and publisher
CHARLES MONTEITH

Introduction by Andrew Martin

In The Paper Men, Wilfred Barclay, an ageing, bibulous writer of novels with such unpromising titles as Horses at the Spring, is pursued around Europe by Professor Rick L. Tucker, a young American academic hell-bent on writing Barclay’s biography. It sounds like an academic farce in the Kingsley Amis or Malcolm Bradbury line, lacking in scope for the philosophical and anthropological themes usually pursued by Golding. But in 1984, at the age of seventy-three, Golding wanted a change. He ascribed the Booker Prize-winning success of his previous novel, Rites of Passage to the dark drollery it undoubtedly contains. He had also decided to take his cue from the warm reviews for his wry and amiable collection of essays, A Moving Target. Perhaps, he fretted, he had been trying too hard with most of his fictions. Perhaps he could afford to lighten up.

His editor at Faber, Charles Monteith, seems to have doubted that hilarity was Golding’s natural métier, and he counselled against employing sillier names than the just-this-side-of-ridiculous Rick L. Tucker. Nevertheless, The Paper Men opens with broad comedy, indeed slapstick. Tucker is prospecting for literary gold in Barclay’s dustbin. As Barclay confronts him, his pyjama trousers fall down. Other pratfalls await Barclay, but most of the humour—and The Paper Men is funny for as long as it wants to be—comes from his scepticism about his adversary and the world he represents. In Seville, Barclay stumbles upon a lecture being given by Tucker: ‘A sleepy bunch of professors, lecturers, postgraduate students were all trying their hardest to stay awake and Professor Tucker was making it difficult for them.’ As Tucker drones on, Barclay realises he is speaking about a graph he has made showing the incidence of relative clauses in Barclay’s work.

A chase begins, Barclay fleeing, the importunate Tucker pursuing. In their early encounters, Barclay maintains a weary forbearance—‘How are my relative clauses?’—while Tucker is deferential yet vampiric, and determined to get Barclay’s consent to a biography in writing: ‘Just a note—and of course at this moment in time hopefully we should do no more than agree the parameters.’

The locations begin to succeed one another in a mad whirl. Barclay’s tactic is to leave false forwarding addresses, but at one point, he travels to South Africa, forgetting that he has given this location as a forwarding address and thus making true what was meant to be a lie. The kaleidoscopic nature of the tale is partly explained by the amount of alcohol Barclay puts away. He continually fights the bottle, and notes, ‘One of the good things about Greece is that the standard wine is undrinkable . . . I’d drunk myself into kidding myself that I liked retzina and then drunk myself out of that delusion again.’ The locations are incidental to Barclay’s mounting paranoia, but there is a casual beauty in their evocation. Barclay goes snorkelling off a Greek island, watching ‘the lovely nameless indifferent creatures with their colours and stillnesses and sudden darts and habit of being chums all together between meals.’ We have the ‘heavy light’ of Rome, that ‘dung-coloured city’. On a Swiss mountain Barclay experiences ‘the hygienic smell of pines and the suggestion round me of their massive darknesses in the fog’. An event occurs on this ominous mountainside that deepens the relationship between Barclay and Tucker, complicating its morality. But the reader may wonder why Barclay hasn’t long since accepted the attentions of the younger man as being a function of his success as an author?

Golding himself was a very private individual, who felt himself hounded by critics; and a teacher of literature from San Diego was breathing down his neck at the time he was dreaming up The Paper Men. His densely allusive works were particularly prone to dissection, and he felt that the concentration on his scholarship wore away the magic of the stories. And so the question arises: is Barclay Golding? They have a lot in common, including a beard and liking a drink. Barclay’s globe-trotting is funded by the commercial success of his first novel, Coldharbour, just as Golding had a cash cow (and also a millstone around his neck) in the shape of Lord of the Flies. In his biography of Golding, John Carey is in no doubt that Barclay was Golding, and that Golding tried to throw readers off the trail by giving Barclay reasons for shunning scrutiny that could not possibly apply to Golding himself. Hence some allusions to criminality in Barclay’s past.

Whether Barclay is Golding or not, the book becomes ever more Golding-esque, in that the whirl culminates in a spiritual crisis, triggered by Barclay’s contemplation of a statue of Christ in an Italian cathedral. He suffers a breakdown of a nebulous but hauntingly described kind. It might be encapsulated by saying that his ego collapses under the weight of self-consciousness generated by Tucker’s thraldom. The Paper Men is a short novel, but we are by now a long way from loose-waisted pyjama trousers. It is Golding’s willingness to address the deepest existential questions that (as he grumbled in the title essay of A Moving Target) made his books ‘the raw material of an academic light industry’. By its density and mesmerising strangeness, The Paper Men would only add fuel to the flames.

Chapter I

I knew at once that it was one of those nights. The drink, such as it had been, was dying out of my brain and leaving a kind of sediment of irritation, vague discomfort and even remorse. It had not been—no, indeed—a bender or booze-up. By the exercise of special pleading I could have persuaded other people that my evening’s consumption had been no more than reasonable with regard to the duties of a host: an English author entertaining a professor of English Literature from overseas. I could also have pleaded that it had been my fiftieth birthday and that we had been having, quote, one of those long, continental meals that are at the heart of European civilization, unquote. (Come to think of it I don‘t know if that’s a quote or not. Call it a clitch.) But the indefatigable analyst of my character—myself, that is—would have none of it. There had been those drinks at lunch. They were the fatal first step, implying in themselves a desert period between four and five o’clock when one would feel not justified but urged, shoved, compelled by the process started at midday to bring the six o’clock hour of offering the guest a drink back to five o’clock, which in its turn—and so on. If I could congratulate myself on a degree of sobriety at half-past three in the morning, it was a minuscule triumph that most people would have considered a defeat.

And boring young Professor Rick L. Tucker would be there at breakfast! At the memory of him I started up in bed, then collapsed again with a groan. It was a small blessing to count, that he had no wife with him, or I should probably have made a pass at her or at the very least been suggestive. And we should drink again. No. I should drink again, out of opportunity and boredom, thus making a nonsense of the high moral stand, the teetotalism that had seemed so irrefrangible no longer ago than last Monday.

There was another thing. It was a black hole in my memory of the previous night, where the long summer evening had turned into night. It was not a large black hole—merely a blotch between the after-dinner drinking and—yes, now it was smaller, the black hole I mean, because on its very brink I remembered getting up yet another bottle, opening it, despite their protests and—doing what? I examined my throat, my mouth, my head, my stomach. It was impossible to believe that I had really made any significant inroads into that (fifth?) bottle. Otherwise my head would be . . . and my stomach would be . . . and the black hole would be . . .

It was at that very moment—and if I bothered to leaf through that pile of journals out there that I am going to burn, I could tell you the hour as well as the date—that I conceived a thought. The point where drinking can be defined as alcoholism is precisely where the black hole is recognized as part of it. I remember thinking, in the terrible clarity of early morning, that the symptoms also implied that the disease was incurable. For it was part of the running of the mind, the universal process. I sat up in bed, but slowly. The window was aglimmer. I moved into another emotional gear, another symptom, perhaps, a feeling of dry, hard factuality that probed my situation from every side, an army of unutterable law which in time might produce unthinkable horrors, as in all accounts of drug addiction. It was not impossible to envisage this very dryness and bleakness as a monster itself that was not yet visible—and would not, I thought with a spurt of real desperation, would not ever be visible if I could help it! I would fight the black hole, fight it on the beaches, in pubs and restaurants, clubs, bars, in travel, in the house, in the very damned delectable bottles themselves, hoping at last to find some pleasure without payment or, alternatively, a pleasure taken in calm, sober daylight rather than this stare so dry and hard—I was frightened, I remember, in a deep, hard way, an appalled way. No, no, I protested to the glimmering window, it can’t be as bad as that! But the words of the wise man returned upon me. Remember that everything that can happen to a man can happen to you!

I took hold of myself. There is no such thing as universal insurance. Black hole there might be, but the first thing a bitterly sobering man would do would be to probe it, find a light to shine here and there until the hole was seen to be no more than a case of forgetfulness that must increase with the advance, year by year, of middle age. My sanity told me that there was a tool to hand. I had only to go downstairs, examine the four empty bottles and the fifth partly empty one, look round in the spirit of Holmes or of Maigret and reconstruct that period between dinner and bed from the evidence of glasses and bottles, spilt booze it might be, or perhaps mercifully not and I should find the fifth bottle still full with no more than a cork drawn—

At that, I heard Elizabeth turn over in the other bed with a sleeper’s sigh. She would know—oh, yes indeed! Doubtless I should hear all in bad time; but why wake her and ask? The way to discover the truth was to creep down in dressing-gown and slippers, yes, and with the pocket torch which I kept at the ready by my bed because our area is notorious for power failures. Nor must I be fobbed off by any drunken efforts on my own part to conceal the evidence. I must interrogate the bottles. If it proved necessary, I must sneak out of the back door—no, the conservatory was quieter—get to the dustbin, ashcan, poubelle, whatever one chose to call it and, not to elaborate, count the empties. For the truth was that already I did not believe in the bottle still full but with the cork drawn. That would be a miracle and miracles, though they might happen, did not seem to apply to me. Yet, so enfeebled was I in mind rather than body that the thought of waking Elizabeth accidentally turned the prospect of getting out of bed into a test of will power like diving into cold water. I have never liked cold water.

It was at this moment that my wavering mind was made up for me. The rubberized lid of the dustbin outside the back door fell off. Somehow that made the whole issue clear. I was no longer a repentant drinker. I was Outraged Householder. Sir, how much longer in the guise of enlightened conservationism are we to endure the depredations of these clumsy creatures and at the same time run the risk of contamination by a disease once thought eradicated? Sir, while we must be mindful, sir—sir, sir, sir—

Bloody badgers. I twisted out of bed, hardly minding whether Elizabeth woke or not. The only gun in my house was an ancient but powerful airgun which I had acquired with a tin of pellets through circumstances too trivial and complex to be worth recording. Author—no, well-known author—no, damn it, Wilfred Barclay shoots badger. Was there a law against it? Something dating from King John or thereabouts? Could you not shoot a badger on your own land? My head was quite extraordinarily uncluttered, my hangover marvellously pushed into the background. I felt pardoned. Perhaps it was the possibility of killing something, the countryman’s hereditary privilege. I bundled into my dressng-gown, shoved on my slippers. Stealthily I stole down the stairs, past the room where our guest slept his solitary sleep in the letto matrimoniale of the spare room. I fished the gun out of the cupboard by the dining-room fireplace, cocked and loaded it. I tiptoed into the warm conservatory, opened the door and peered round the corner.

Here was a dilemma. How do you shoot a badger when you can make it out as no more than an enlargement of a dustbin? The creature had its paws on the rim, its head down, as it searched nastily and avidly through our rubbish. It would be licking at scraps of pâté and perhaps gnawing old bacon rind or the bone from a gammon. It was wild nature and probably gassable but only by the appropriate authorities. Then again (was there a chill in the air for all the time of the year?) were badgers dangerous—not only by transmitting disease, but actively, toothily, clawily dangerous? Would a wounded badger attack? Would a tickled-up badger or one with young (were there young with it?) go for my throat? The situation was not simple and was further complicated by the absurd. I was wearing an old pair of pyjamas and the cord of my dressing-gown was gripping me a little above where the pyjamas should have been gripping me but were too ancient for their elasticated top to do so. They were performing as they always did, even in contrary conditions. If I was losing weight, they slipped down. If I was gaining weight, they slipped down. I had the loaded gun in one hand, my torch in the other and no third hand for my trousers which now fell suddenly under my dressing-gown so that I only just caught them by clapping my knees together. It was, perhaps, no situation from which to face a charging badger. I recognized uneasily the hand of what I sometimes thought to be my personal nemesis, the spirit of farce.

There came a fresh sound from the dustbin. I began to shuffle forward in a complex manner, the gun in one hand, the other hand partly holding the torch in my pocket and at the same time hooked into my trouser top. A sudden breeze rattled the branches noisily in the orchard. I reached the dustbin at the exact moment when the badger, it may be, alarmed by the sudden sound, froze in its probing act. I faced it across the bin. The badger looked up and uttered the only really “strangled cry” I have ever experienced outside fiction. This cry was the beginning of a high sound expressed in the funnies as glug or gulp. The dawn-lit face of Professor Rick L. Tucker rose before me beyond the further rim. I ought to have been embarrassed for him but I wasn’t. He had bored me and intruded, he had shown every sign of prying, of making a professional meal of me. Now I had caught him in the act of the unthinkable. I spoke very loudly. If this woke up the whole world, I implied by my decibels, why should I conceal the fact that I had found a full professor of Eng. Lit. rifling my dustbin?

“You must be very hungry, Tucker. I’m sorry we didn’t feed you better.”

He made no sound at all. I could see the kitchen door was open behind him. I had no free hand with which to point. I gestured with the airgun and that commanding gesture tightened my finger (unaccustomed enough to guns, these days) round the trigger. The gun went off with a report that in daytime would have seemed no louder than a cork popping but in the dawn sounded like the first shot of D Day. Tucker may have given another strangled cry for all I know, but all I heard was the shot, its echo and the cries of what sounded like all the birds for miles. Tucker turned and moved clumsily as a badger into the kitchen. I hobbled after him, switched on the light, shut the door and stood the gun beside it. I sank on to a stool on one side of the kitchen table and, as if an interview or a continuation of the last one was inevitable, Tucker sank on to a stool across the table from me. My own farcical situation and incompetence changed my irritation into fury.